


Do you permit me to love you?

by lamarcelaise



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Character Study, Enjolras POV, It's the death scene, M/M, canon-verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-21
Updated: 2013-06-21
Packaged: 2017-12-15 16:21:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/851569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lamarcelaise/pseuds/lamarcelaise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You look me in the eye, frantic, frightened, sad, and determined. It looks almost as though you are feeling the things that I feel. I cannot tell. I would ask, but this is not the time; for, you see, we are about to die. Has this thought not struck you, yet? Do you not know that you are throwing your life away, martyring yourself for a cause that, by all rights, you never seemed to want to be a part of? Do you understand the madness of this situation? </p><p>Canon-verse, Enjolras and Grantaire's deaths in E's point of view, and a character study, of sorts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Do you permit me to love you?

**Author's Note:**

> Some context: There is a post, on the Tumblr, which states that young French couples during the 19th century would often ask each other, "Permets-tu?" (or "Do you permit it?") as a cute line; it was a sort of abbreviation of "Do you permit me to love you?" While I'm honestly not quite sure of the verity of this statement, the thought would not leave my head until I wrote it. 
> 
> I am not sorry at all.

I have never been the type of man to attempt to voice my affections. Actions speak louder than words and, though I have all but mastered the manipulation of the latter, it is for the sole purpose of inducing the former. 

I have never been the type of man to show my affections conventionally. For others, physical affection is the norm; they hug, they smile; body language is key. And I? I, I show my affection by conversing with one first, allowing one's presence second, and doing all that is in my power to help them to be as they should be third. 

I, I care about those around me. It is often said that I do not, but that cannot be said with any semblance of rationality. I love the people, and I venerate my friends. I love all, and I love deeply; it has never been something that I have known how to handle, and so I come across as aloof when I am much the opposite. 

I had always hoped that you, you of all people, with your deep heart and your sad eyes and your brilliant mind and your talented, sorrowful soul, would understand. I had always hoped that, though I cannot show to you that I care as others can, though I may not be able to care in the way that others can at all, I do care, in my own way; and I would give my life for yours to be lifted of sorrow. 

You, however, you never did understand. You lamented that I despised you, when I only despised your behaviours or words. You lamented that I despised you, when I only despised your willingness to give up, your disbelief, the ease with which you threw away all that you were and could be. You lamented that I despised you, when I, as I am sure I have just stated, would give my life for yours to be lifted of sorrow. 

It happens to come that I do give my life; but, as you appear, it seems to do quite the opposite; the sorrow in your eyes, the horror, lays its heavy hand on my heart from across the room. Your eyes are glazed with disbelief, for a moment, but a desperate one, rather than that to which you have always been so resigned. 

You are shouting, now, and I cannot help but wonder what you are doing; but soon, I look on in my own disbelieving, sorrowful horror. You, who believes in nothing, would be willing to die beside me? You, who I had believed -- perhaps foolishly hoped -- incapable of death, who would be the only one of us to survive, of whom I was aware, would die, here and now? You, who had disdained our cause from the beginning, are now willing to die for it?

It is so absurd, so foolish, and it seems as though it has taken hours for you to make your way to your place beside me. In reality, it has only been a few seconds. You are standing beside me, now, and I am struck with what is both dread, and a feeling of rightness. If I am to die, I now realise, it is only fitting that it is beside you. 

You look me in the eye, frantic, frightened, sad, and determined. It looks almost as though you are feeling the things that I feel. I cannot tell. I would ask, but this is not the time; for, you see, we are about to die. Has this thought not struck you, yet? Do you not know that you are throwing your life away, martyring yourself for a cause that, by all rights, you never seemed to want to be a part of? Do you understand the madness of this situation? 

Evidently, you do, because your glance is unwavering. You do not tremble, nor cower, nor try to run. You have made your bed, your grave, and you are determined to lie in it, to gain your own place in my coffin. There will be no persuading you and, if I am completely honest with myself, I am not sure that I want to try. We are both stubborn. I do not want you to die, but you are a grown man, and I will not make your decisions for you. You have your reasons, I'm sure. 

_"Permets-tu?"_ you ask me, taking my hand in yours. Permets-tu. I realise, now, what your reason is. I see couples walk down the street, young men and women laughing and holding hands and murmuring, "Permets-tu?" _Do you permit me to love you?_

Love. I understand, now. That has always been your reason, through everything that you did which I never could understand; and that is your reason, now, as you take my hand and prepare to die with me. 

I smile. I smile, because I do permit it. No, I do not permit you to love me. You, as I have said, are a grown man. You do not need my permission for you to love me. You can, if you wish, but I will not try to tell you what you can and cannot feel. I do, however, permit myself. I permit myself to feel as I never had allowed myself before. I permit myself to submit to this feeling. I permit myself, finally, to love you with all of my being. 

My smile does not finish before we are killed, but I know that you can see it; and it is for that reason that I smile from above, as I take your hand once more, and whisper:

_"Je le permets."_


End file.
